


Awake

by TobuIshi



Category: Death Note
Genre: Angst, Cheesecake, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 11:38:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobuIshi/pseuds/TobuIshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misa keeps track of the little things, and marks the anniversaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake

The light from the fridge wakes him, falling through the crack where their bedroom door has been left ajar. Following his curiosity, he finds her in the kitchen, just sinking the tines of a fork into a slim slice of convenience store cheesecake.

The lamps have all been left off, and in the dimness, her eyes are wide and dark, pale hair lit into a delicate halo by the fridge light, slim fingers poised frozen over her midnight snack. He looks at her. She looks at him.

"Well," she says, in a small voice, finally, "it's that day again. So Misa thought she'd have a little cake."

It hits him sideways, like most of the rare occasions where something she does requires him to think. Then, having quickly examined her words from all angles, his eyes narrow.

"You do this every year?"

She hesitates, toying with the fork. He can smell the rich, heavy chocolate scent of the cake from where he stands--Misa and his sister are always dieting, he hasn't smelled cheesecake in years.

"Yes." She won't look at him now; her gaze trails limply along the floor. "Um. You know."

He knows. He expects that if she _did_ raise that melting gaze to his, those deadly transparent windows, he'd see it written in there with all the awkward, twisted-backwards sincerity she can muster. The memory of three in a circle, dancing the stupid stomping dance.

_....I made another friend._

And he smiles. "Misa, you're so sweet. Soft-hearted," he reaches across the kitchen counter to ruffle her hair, "but sweet." He pauses. "Can I have some?"

She dimples--she glows--she's already basking again in his approval. "Sure!" A quick darting motion with the tiny fork, slicing. She offers him the tip of the piece, vivisected, and he accepts it.

Unhurried, he mulls it over his tongue for a minute, savoring the richness. She must have bought it that morning; it's had time to chill in the fridge since being baked, and it's gone heavy and creamy and full-bodied. He imagines many of the sweetest things in life are best savored after they've aged a bit.

"Mmm," he says, and swallows, handing back the fork. "Thanks, Misa. It's really good."

She blinks, brow furrowed a little in puzzlement. "I thought you didn't like sweets."

He shrugs. "You picked the right cake, I suppose." Patting her on the arm, he leaves her to happily finish the slice. She gives a little squeal of delight at the first bite, humming contentedly at the rare decadent indulgence, and he glances over his shoulder at her and smiles at the irony, her happiness at what she sees as his endorsement of her sentimental little ritual.

As he closes the bedroom door behind him, his murmur is too soft for her to hear. "Some things are better cold."


End file.
